


Filled with Holiday Cheer

by purplegertie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Family, Belly Kink, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Holidays, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Public Kink, Stuffing, light humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplegertie/pseuds/purplegertie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only way Dean's found to survive holiday gathering with Castiel's huge family is to eat himself stupid - with Castiel's approval, of course. And Castiel approves very much indeed.</p>
<p>(Or, the one with covert public kink and a lot of belly worship after.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filled with Holiday Cheer

Dean is nervous. He shows it in the way he keeps fiddling with the collar of the shirt Castiel selected for him. Castiel doesn’t grip his fingers to still them or tell him to stop; they aren’t in that kind of scene. He wants to, though. “We don’t have to do this,” he tells Dean again.

Dean looks over from the passenger seat. Grimaces. Drops his hands. “I want to. Are you kidding? It’s the only thing keeping me together over here.”

“My family likes you just fine, Dean.”

Dean snorts. “Some of them. And I mean, Gabriel’s an asshole, but I don’t _mind_ him.”

Not like Uncle Zachariah, say – totally understandable, given no one in the family can stand him. Michael makes himself obnoxious to fewer people, but he tends to look Dean over as if he were a particularly exquisite variety of cake, which irritates Castiel quite as much as it irritates Dean. And Aunt Naomi is a woman of unshakable opinion and venomous sarcasm; Castiel himself might, in his weaker moments, admit to being terrified of her. “Well, if they _are_ looking for some means by which to judge you, we’ll give them plenty of fodder today.”

“Yeah we will,” Dean says, expression softening to a grin for the first time in an hour. 

When they arrive at Raphael’s, cars have already spilled out from the driveway and lined the street in both directions. Castiel parks a block down, and he and Dean crunch through crusted snow to the sidewalk and then up to the house.

Anna meets them at the door, grinning widely. She wraps Dean in a hug before he’s even inside, and he returns it. “What about me?” Castiel asks. “I’m the one who you are actually related to.” 

“Silly,” Anna says, and wraps him in a hug, too. “You know Dean’s my favorite.”

“It smells great in here,” Dean says. 

“It should. Everything you could possibly want for Thanksgiving is in that kitchen right now. Everything you could want, _and_ green bean casserole, because what kind of Thanksgiving would it be without that?”

Dean matches her grimace. “Can’t ditch the classics, I guess. But hey, we brought pie!” He offers it to her with a flourish. 

“Of course you did,” Anna says, peeking under the aluminum foil. 

“Blackberry. From the berries Cas and I picked this summer.”

“Awesome,” Anna says. She takes the dish out of his hands. “I’ll just go put it with the other desserts.”

“Hey, no tasting!”

Anna flips him the bird over her shoulder, and Dean laughs. “Is she your favorite, too?” Castiel asks innocently.

“Shut up, man,” Dean says, and plants a kiss at the corner of Castiel’s lips. “Come on, let’s eat!”

It’s not so simple, of course. The turkey is just out of the oven but as yet uncarved, the cranberry sauce has twenty minutes still to chill, and the table that runs the length of Raphael’s impressive dining room is only half set. Castiel and Dean put themselves to that task, and despite Dean’s pretended despair over the variety of forks, all is arranged by the time dishes begin to arrive in the kitchen. Dean and Castiel step away to give the others room. “This is some spread,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“Can’t wait to start in, can you?” The glint in Dean’s eye belies the innocuous words. Dean is not, it must be said, particularly subtle. 

“I imagine there is enough food here even for you.”

A flush is rising on Dean’s cheeks. “Bet so.”

Raphael says grace – it would have been Michael, once upon a time, but he is not much in the family favor these days, as evidenced by the fact that this is no longer his house. Prayers over, everyone sits, and the passing of food commences.

The key to a holiday meal with the Miltons is to have a very clear idea of what food there is and exactly how much you want of each item, and to stick to that plan as the items go around. Otherwise you’ll have an entire plate full of starches before the roast beef has even made its way to you.

Castiel selects the same portions he does every year; the menu never changes, except for desserts. Dean on the other hand, well, before half the food has circulated, his plate _is_ entirely full of starches plus a turkey thigh slathered in cranberry sauce. “There’s more still to come,” Castiel tells him.

That glint returns to Dean’s eye. “Seconds,” he says.

Samandriel is sitting on Castiel’s left, and between mouthfuls of dressing he enthusiastically tells Castiel about his classes – physics and engineering, hard sciences of the kind the Milton family appreciates. To Castiel’s right, Dean plows through his first plate and talks to no one. Castiel keeps a sharp eye on that plate. 

When the last olive has been popped into Dean’s mouth, Castiel casually leans over and says, “Do you want some more?” At this point, of course, he’s confident of the answer; barring some digestive catastrophe, it’ll be some time before Dean might safeword out, and of course Castiel will try very hard not to bring him to that point. 

“That’d be awesome,” Dean says.

“What would you like?”

Dean eyes the ceiling thoughtfully. “Dressing, a slab of that prime rib, couple of those wheat rolls? And pie.”

“Don’t you think you’d better wait on pie until you’ve eaten your dinner?”

Dean rolls his eyes, not unappreciatively. “Yeah, sure, fine.”

Castiel rises, takes Dean’s plate, and goes around the table collecting the requisite items. At this point the formality of the meal is broken; Gabriel’s got a leg swung over his chair and is regaling Samandriel with tales of some terrible college prank, and Naomi is exchanging low, heated words with Anna over some point of politics. Castiel would worry, but somehow Anna is the only member of the entire Milton family that he is certain Naomi likes, despite her violent opposition to all Anna’s beliefs. They always make up over wine later. Sometimes singing is involved. 

Castiel returns to his seat with plate piled high. Dean eyes it like a starving man, as if he did not already have an entire plateful in him. The thought is a curl of heat in Castiel’s belly. He dares not encourage that line of thought. Later.

“Dude, this stuff is awesome,” Dean says through a mouthful of dressing.

“Raphael will be gratified, I’m sure.” Possibly not if Dean tells him with his mouth full, but some habits cannot be broken, Castiel has found. Again, this is not that kind of scene.

“Seriously?”

“The turkey is his responsibility as head of the family.”

“Huh.” 

Castiel abandons all pretense of conversation with Samandriel and tries only not to look as if his entire attention is focused on Dean. Which it is. He can’t tell yet whether Dean’s pace has slowed down. He thinks not. Still, he watches each forkful in its path to Dean’s mouth. Dean affects not to notice, but that flush is rising again. 

What strikes Castiel every time they do this, what initially drew his attention to the whole idea in the first place, is how much food Dean can put away without even trying. Castiel is a hummingbird, as Dean puts it: always eating, never very much at a time. His one plate this afternoon plus eventual dessert is quite sufficient. Dean, though. Dean, when he has the time and food available to him, eats like a bear preparing for winter. He eats and he eats and he barely comes up for air. 

“Good?” Castiel asks as Dean begins to scrape his plate clean. It is a multi-layered question. How was the food? How is Dean? What is the state of Dean’s stomach?

Dean grins. “Real good.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Do you want some more dinner before dessert?”

Dean doesn’t wrinkle his nose, though well he might. Castiel knows how Dean feels about pumpkin pie. That’s why it’s such a useful motivational tool. But Dean only grins wider and says, “Bring it.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Naw,” Dean says, patting his stomach appreciatively. The sight is so striking that it leaves Castiel a little light-headed; he barely notices what Dean’s says next. “It’s all good.” Dean winks, the bastard. He knows what he just did to Castiel with a single gesture.

Well, then. Castiel shall just have to punish him. He knows exactly what Dean needs, and it doesn’t take him long to get it. When he sits back down next to Dean, Dean doesn’t make a face at the heaping helping of green bean casserole, because that’s against the rules, and anyway he must know what’s it for.

Castiel grins innocently. “I know how much you like it. And I brought you more wheat rolls, too.” Those weren’t for punishment, though. Those were for _volume_.

There’s a lot of casserole on Dean’s plate. Castiel didn’t feel bad for taking such a large helping; the only reason anyone eats it is because Naomi brings it, and there’s always plenty left over. Dean clutches his fork and digs in. Again, he doesn’t make a face, and Castiel relents. He leans over and says, “Pie after this.”

Dean’s expression clears, and he nods. 

There is a particular satisfaction in watching Dean fill himself with food he doesn’t like. Castiel spends several pleasant minutes watching green beans, Campbell’s soup, and dried onions going into Dean’s mouth, sliding down his throat. He imagines them being churned together with cranberries and masticated turkey in Dean’s stomach, pushing against the walls. It’s a delicious image.

“Geez, Dean, what’s that, your fourth plate?” Gabriel flops into the chair on Dean’s other side.

“Third,” Dean mumbles.

“Glad somebody’s eating that casserole. God, it’s gross.”

Dean snorts, but keeps eating.

Gabriel leans in. “Hey, do you want some of that prime rib? Zachariah just called Naomi to say he’s like fifteen minutes away, and there’s only like five slices left. How awful would it be if Zach missed the whole shebang?”

And Dean says the only thing he can say to this particular question, whoever poses it: “Sure, I’ll have some more.”

“I’ll get you some,” Castiel says. He doesn’t bring back all five slices, because that would be greedy. He does bring Dean three of them, though, and a third for himself. Gabriel’s gone by the time he gets back, damage done. Dean’s plate is just now clean.

“Good?” Castiel asks again.

Dean’s grin is gradual and sloe-eyed. “Awesome,” he drawls. The word heats Castiel all the way to his toes.

“Pie after this,” Castiel promises. “Unless...”

“Sure,” Dean agrees easily. Unless someone else offers Dean more seconds, in which case all bets are off. Castiel doesn’t know whether or not to hope someone does. He has _plans_ for that pie.

Dean’s pace has noticeably slowed by the time he’s working on the last slice of prime rib. “You could take a break before dessert, if you want,” Castiel offers carefully. The phrasing is deliberate: it’s Dean’s choice, entirely optional.

“Maybe,” Dean agrees.

-

That’s when Naomi sidles up, argument with Anna apparently abandoned for the moment. She eyes Dean’s single, mostly-empty plate as if she can see every serving Dean has eaten from it. Possibly she can; her capacity for knowing what goes on in this family, even when she isn’t around to see it, is legendary. “Are you quite sure there’s enough food here for you?” she asks. “You could always forage in the fridge if you needed.”

Dean flushes darkly. “ ‘M fine,” he says.

“We wouldn’t want you wasting away.” Naomi pointedly eyes his waistline, where four plates of Thanksgiving dinner strain against buttons already hard-pressed to contain him. 

Dean hunches in his chair, which only pushes his belly out further. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Hmm,” Naomi says, and pushes on to harry some other prey.

Castiel leans to whisper in Dean’s ear, “I think she’s suggesting that you’ve put on some weight recently.”

“Naw,” Dean says, flush deepening, eyes fixed on his plate. 

“You’re quite noticeably heavier, even without today’s gluttony.”

“Gluttony,” Dean repeats, hand closing over his stomach.

“It’s a sin, you know. One of the seven.”

“Goddamn.” Dean looks up finally, his eyes unnaturally bright.

“So tell me, Dean.” Castiel drops his voice further. “Have you sinned enough today, or would you care to add some pie to that gluttonous belly?”

Dean’s answer is breathless, instantaneous. “Pie.”

Castiel sits back, satisfied. He has no doubt his color is high, too. “I believe there’s pumpkin, apple, or blackberry.”

“All of ‘em,” Dean says immediately, as Castiel knew he would.

“Why don’t you go find a seat in the living room, and I’ll bring it to you?”

“ ‘Kay.”

Castiel heads for the kitchen, but he hangs back by the doorway to watch Dean get gingerly to his feet. His stomach is more prominent once he stands, the bloat clearly visible to Castiel’s eye despite the camoflage of extra padding Dean has put on these last few months.

“ _He’s_ letting himself go, isn’t he?” Uriel asks. Castiel starts; he hadn’t realized Uriel was nearby. “Completely out of shape.”

“Not _completely_ ,” Castiel protests mildly. “He has put on some weight, I admit.”

“Like to see him last a day at basic. _Civilian_ ,” Uriel spits, like an epithet. 

Castiel files the exchange away to tell Dean later, and he goes to collect the pie. When he has a generous piece of each arranged on a plate, he goes and finds Dean, lounging on the sofa with his hands folded beguilingly over his belly. 

His eyes light when Castiel hands him the plate. “This looks _awesome_ , dude.” The honest delight on his face warms Castiel as deeply as Dean’s rounded belly could ever do.

Castiel watches each forkful pass Dean’s lips – slowly, after the first couple. He is nearly at his limit. He pauses after the second piece, and Castiel thinks they might have hit Dean’s wall. Dean leans back and closes his eyes for a few moments. Then he sits up, throws Castiel a grin, and sets to work on the last piece – pumpkin, Dean’s very favorite of all.

When Dean’s plate is quite clean, Dean says, not quite softly enough to be private, “Think I might have overdid it.” He passes the plate to Castiel and rubs at his stomach. Across the room, Zachariah snorts. What high ground Zachariah could possibly think he holds in this particular matter, Castiel will never understand. He is suddenly anxious, though, to hide Dean away from everyone’s eyes except Castiel’s own. Besides, the strain in Dean’s face suggests he should perhaps have foregone that third piece of pie.

Castiel closes his hand around Dean’s. “There’s bound to be a guest bedroom empty,” he says, and Dean nods tiredly. Castiel helps him unsteadily to his feet.

They pass Naomi in the hallway. Her eyebrows rise. “Dean’s not feeling well,” Castiel tells her. “We’re going to lie down.”

Naomi only shakes her head.

Castiel takes Dean upstairs, to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Not only is it the farthest from prying ears, but it has a bathroom attached, in case that should be necesssary.

Dean sprawls on the bed. “Ugh.”

“You did marvelously,” Castiel tells him. He sits at Dean’s side and begins to undo first Dean’s belt, then the button on his jeans. The denim has pressed angry red patterns in Dean’s skin.

Dean heaves a sigh. “That feels better.”

Castiel plays his fingers across the straining buttons of Dean’s shirt. He pokes a finger in the gap, and Dean grunts. “You’ve quite outdone yourself, Dean.”

“Sure feels like I did.” Dean reaches down to rub at his belly.

Castiel takes his hand. “Allow me.” Lightly he begins to press circles into Dean’s stomach, just the way Dean likes it. He can tell by Dean’s groans that it’s helping. The flesh is hot and tight under his fingers. “Truly, you are enormous today, Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Feel.” He brings Dean’s hands down to close around his stomach. “Definitely bigger than the last time we did this.”

“Yeah,” Dean says wonderingly.

“Uriel said you’d let yourself go. Said you wouldn’t last a day of basic training.”

Dean laughs, and then he groans and holds his stomach a little tighter. “Can you see me? This fat ass, running laps?”

“Your belly heaving up and down.” Castiel takes a pinch of fat and jiggles it to demonstrate. “And of course you’d bankrupt the cafeteria.”

“ ‘Course.” Dean’s flush is rising again, and it isn’t the only thing that is.

“Soon _everyone_ will be talking of how you’ve grown.” Castiel runs his hands over Dean’s heated flesh. “Do you know, I think you could pop a button today if you tried.”

“Seriously?” Dean tries to sit up, but he can’t get leverage against the bulk of his overfull stomach. 

Castiel gives him a hand up, and then brings the hand around to the shirt button hanging mostly desperately to life. “See? A deep breath, a bit of a push.”

“Don’t really have room for deep breaths,” Dean says with a chuckle, but he inhales anyway. Then he pushes his belly out as far as it’ll go against the confines of his shirt, huffing a little, pushing a little harder—

The button flies off and hits the wall with a _clack_.

Dean falls back against the pillow, holding his stomach and laughing. “Can’t believe I did that.”

“I told you.” Castiel lays his hand flat in the gap left by the missing button. “You’re enormous today, and only getting bigger. Glutton.” He presses against Dean, and Dean gasps. “Are you aching right now?”

“God, yes,” Dean says, closing his eyes. 

“You deserve it. You ate enough for three, greedy guts. And everyone could see.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, half moaning. He arches his back, pressing against Castiel’s hand. 

Castiel unbuttons the remaining buttons, and then he begins rubbing Dean’s belly again. “Do you feel how huge you are, how heavy?”

“Yeah.”

“And what happens to people who stuff as much food down their throats as you did today?”

Barely articulate, Dean mumbles, “Get fatter.” 

He’s fully hard now, his dick high and prominent in his boxers. Castiel switches hands to grip it. It takes only a handful of strokes to finish Dean off, and then Dean lies back against the pillows, breath gasping, stomach heaving and boxers sticky. After his breathing starts to slow, he offers muzzily, “Do you now?”

“I can take care of myself,” Castiel promises. “Sleep.”

It is laughably easy to bring himself to climax. The sight of Dean, sprawled out and belly distended, always does this to Castiel. After he has cleaned himself, he sits on the bed next to Dean, propping himself up against the backboard, and he waits.

It’s maybe an hour later when Dean wakes. His movements shake Castiel out of his doze. “How are you feeling?” 

Dean nods. Tentatively he pushes on his stomach. There is not, Castiel notices, much give. “Pretty good. Like I ate way the hell too much.”

Just the sight of Dean’s hand on his belly sends the blood rushing to all the best places. “You are quite distracting like that, you know.”

Dean’s nap has recovered him enough that he flashes Castiel a shit-eating grin. “That so?”

“ _Quite_.” Castiel leans down and nibbles at Dean’s stomach. “You are not just getting fat, you know.”

“No?”

“No.” The softness on the surface, the bloated fullness underneath: it is irresistible. “You are growing quite corpulent, Dean.”

“Oh, yeah?” There’s a laugh in Dean’s voice, but an uncontrolled hitch of breath, too. “You always got so many words, man.”

“Plump,” Castiel says, lightly pinching some of that softness between his fingers. “Rotund.” He cups the curve of Dean’s belly in his hand. “Portly. Stout. In possession of a stately and ever-expanding embonpoint.”

“I got no idea what the hell that means.” Dean’s studied disinterest is belied by the shortness of his breath.

“Fat, Dean. You are on your way to becoming unmistakeably, devastatingly, irresistibly fat.”

Dean stares at him, wide-eyed, breath caught in his throat.

“You are captivating like this. Fascinating.” Castiel traces his fingers lightly across Dean’s swells and curves. “The landscape of your belly has become rolling hills of plenty. Every ponderous heave of your breath is an earthquake.”

Dean’s hands are fisted in the bedsheets.

“Soon you will be a giant like the giants of old. The earth will shake under your feet, and when you sleep, the vast bulk of your belly will be mistaken for a mountain.” Castiel slides his hand across the expanse of Dean’s stomach. “You contain multitudes, Dean.”

“Goddamn.” His eyes are squeezed shut, his head thrown back against the pillow. “Damn it, touch me, Cas.”

“Please.”

“Please,” Dean stutters out, voice shaky with need.

Castiel finds Dean’s dick in his boxers by feel. Again, it’s mere moments before Dean comes with a sharp, low cry. Then Castiel up to Dean’s ear, and he whispers, “You are truly beautiful.” 

Dean shudders. Eyes still shut, he reaches blindly for Castiel, and Castiel grips his hand. They sit quietly for a few moments, while Dean’s breath slow and his pulse under Castiel’s fingers slow. Finally, Dean mumbles, “You got the weirdest dirty talk, man.”

Beneath the good-humored mockery, Castiel hears the uncertainty, the insecurity that Dean fiercely hides from everyone but him. He caresses his finger along the meat of Dean’s palm. “I meant every word.” Dean’s mouth opens. “Yes, even the last. Especially the last. Always.”

“Oh.”

There is no point, Castiel knows, in saying any more now. Instead he stretches himself out next to Dean. His arm finds its way across Dean’s well-padded waist, and he falls asleep.

The End


End file.
